The constellations're
twinkling in the heaven,
And hands, as if theirself,
are stretching to the fire...
And I'm feared, that after the awakening,
The people are not charmed
with new day's light.
Nor they do feel existence in reality
without runnig to the world of tale.
Nor - the immersing into poetry,
as in the holy sacred temple.
Nor catching a Fire-Bird
for the meal with porridge,
Or a magic Gold-Fish
for ear tasteful.
-
In russian:
http: //www.stihi.ru/2012/08/12/7484
In ukranian translation
by Georgy Olegovech Khvat
http: //www.stihi.ru/2012/07/12/8892
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem